


we fall through the gaps

by bottledlogic



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Doyle arc, F/M, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledlogic/pseuds/bottledlogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This is us - before, after, and everything in between.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. before.

**Author's Note:**

> written earlier this year. completed, with later chapters to be posted soon.

Her phone rings, and she looks down without meaning to, and her heart clenches painfully because _he’s smiling_.

(she told him once, jokingly, _you should smile more_ , then bit her tongue, but he responded surprisingly, deadpan of course, that _there wasn’t a camera_ )

There’s no camera now, and she can’t answer her damn phone, because then he’ll know, and no one should ever know. There’s only a mirror in front of her, in this clean clean bathroom, and she absurdly thinks that she should have hidden everything behind the mirror instead.

_who are you anyway?_

“Emily, I know you’re inside. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

Her phone is now silent, his uncharacteristically cheerful countenance disappearing as the screen fades to black. Bracing her hands against the sink (neurotically white to the point of reflection), she swallows and shudders and she can’t stop the thick tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“Emily. I’m coming in, okay?”

Her mumbled response does nothing to appease his increasing worry, and he pushes the door open, and his heart breaks at the woman in front of him. Though her head is bowed and her hands are squeezing the life out of the basin, she’s alert and hyperaware, and hell, he’s seen this behaviour before… This is not the Special Agent Emily Prentiss that he knows, but really, _when did you take the time to know her?_ He knows that both he and his team have taken her for granted. He’s even ashamed to say that her initial value on the team was only for her linguistic and behavioural skills, and then she was so good at keeping secrets ( _everyone’s secrets_ ), and so she stayed, _and she never left_.

She’s staring blankly in the mirror, gazing unseeingly at him, and he approaches so as not to spook her any further. He’s not stupid; he’s noticed her pulling away from everyone for the past three weeks, almost as if she knows she’s about to die and she’s trying to lessen the impact. And then that thought freezes him momentarily, and he tries to scoff, because that only ever happens in the movies, right?

“How did you get in here?” She mutters, eyes darting around and finally settling on his face.

“I’ve still got your key. From…after Foyet.” And he almost looks guilty, like he held onto something that should have been let go an eternity ago.

Carefully, making sure he keeps the eye contact, he lets his hands run smooth lines down her arms, and it is strange because he’s in his subordinate’s bathroom, and he’s never been known to initiate any physical contact (with the exception of his son).

_the hunted are lost, somewhere… can you find me?_

He tries again. “Emily, tell me what’s going on?”

Her head ducks and a whole minute passes before she manages to look into her supervisor’s eyes.

“You just called me ‘Emily’.”

“I did.” He obliges her deflection, hoping that it’s some twisted logical way of hers to get to the point.

“Three times. You never call me that. Not even when I was at Yale.”

“I’m in your bathroom, and something is clearly wrong. It’s hardly a normal occurrence.” And he knows that she knows that they’d both rather not beat around the bush. They’re both masters of deflection and hiding behind walls, and it’s already emotionally draining, but he feels (knows) that he owes it to her to hear her out. ( _you’ve never been one to interfere in a colleague’s life, have you?_ )

She deflates slightly, knowing that there’s no way he’ll leave without some sort of response from her, but damn, she doesn’t know what to say that she isn’t ashamed of, or isn’t classified.

_i’ve worn a mask for too many years_

“You know what it’s like…” She breaks off, unsure as to whether she’s close enough to him to broach the topic. She’s not Rossi, or JJ, or even Morgan. It’s only been tonight that she’s Emily.

She tries again, regardless. (He’s standing there for a reason.) “It’s like a game of hide-and-seek on steroids. All your friends have been found, and the guy’s counting down, and there’s not really anywhere else that he _needs_ to look to find you. But because everyone else has lost, and you’re not there, he eliminates all the other spots, and if… _when_ …you move out into the open…”

Chills run down his spine, because yes, of course he knows what she’s talking about. It’s a dark dark place, and one that he’s tried eradicating from his mind with too many bottles of alcohol and very little sleep.

“Is someone after you, Emily?”

And she starts painfully, because he’s used her name _again_ , slipping so fluidly from his tongue, dark cadence and all.

(not lauren, not prentiss, just emily.)

She stares him in the eye and nods. Just once.

_i’m sick and tired of lying to everyone_

“Who?”

Unconsciously, her hand darts towards her face, nails bitten by teeth. Thumb, index finger, left hand…

“I can’t… you… and Jack, and the team…”

This is her family. And it’s just as well that Jack’s at Jessica’s this weekend, because like hell is he going to leave her without one. With a relationship as tenuous as the one she has with her mother and virtually nothing with her father, he wonders who a young Emily Prentiss would have confided secrets to. Even in his somewhat distant position as Unit Chief, he can tell that this is the closest she’s had to a family.

“Jack’s at Jessica’s this weekend,” he says, watching some of the tension dissipate from her shoulders. “What’s his name?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. He knows too much already.”

“Then tell me what I can do, Emily.” He’s reminded of himself over a year ago, wide-eyed and paranoid, running on pure adrenaline, red stress ball with holes from having the stuffing pulled out of it. And in the midst of that, drinks with a particular brunette on his team, held at arm’s length, determined not to let him wallow alone. At the very least, he’s repaying the debt.

And he can’t get rid of that tiny voice whispering to him…

Abruptly, she stalks out of the bathroom, leaving him stunned and following her to the lounge. She drags the low table by the hall to the front door, and places the vase and a few other glass knick-knacks on the very edges.

He’s curious until he realises, and then it isn’t so amusing anymore.

“Where did you learn to do that?” _He never thought of that_.

She gives him a sad look, ignores the question, then beckons him over to her rather extensive DVD collection.

“What do you want to watch?” She manages to offer him a small smile.

He stares openly at her. “Someone’s after you, and you want to watch a movie? With me?”

Her smile only drops a little, and she meets his disbelief head-on. “I just want to…” _Pretend? Forget?_

And maybe he gets it, because he finds himself sprawled inelegantly on the chaise, with her head resting on his left shoulder, falling asleep to the sweet accordion soundtrack of _Ratatouille_ , the animated Paris skyline a comical contrast against the D.C. skyline just beyond her windows.

_where is reality?_

Her breathing is harsh, shallow, and he finds his hand in a death grip in hers. He rubs concentric circles against the back of her hand.

And he doesn’t take his eyes off the table and the door.

The hours tick by until it’s six in the morning, and she must be really exhausted, he thinks, because he’s never seen her this tense yet simultaneously relaxed in weeks. He shifts her so she’s lying in a more comfortable position, yet no further away (and still maintaining that physical contact). He thinks about Jack, about her, about budget reports, about her, about their next potential case, about Jack’s weekend with Jessica, about her, about Foyet, about her, and it goes round and round until he feels her stir.

He sees the panic flash through her eyes as she registers her unfamiliar position, and watches as her gaze darts toward the table and the door, all objects present and unbroken. Eyes sweeping across the apartment, she catalogues everything within ten seconds, and it’s only after that she realises the present company.

“Have you been up all night?” Shame and apology cloud her voice, but he detects a hint of relief mixed in as well. “Hotch, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done the same for me before.”

He offers to cook breakfast while she takes a shower, and it’s so domestic (and normal?) that she’s allowed a slight grin to unfurl, and it’s only until she’s standing under the pounding hot spray that it hits her, _that he never left last night_.

(The shower is no longer warm.)

Bolting out, she hurriedly gets dressed and rushes into the kitchen.

“Hotch, you need to go. Right now. Please.” And she’s standing there, hair wet but unwashed, _begging_ her supervisor, who’s holding a spatula looking adorably confused were it any other day. Her voice is high and frantic, and he’s suddenly at a loss as to what the hell is going on.

“Emily, why?”

She begins to pack up the table, piling the objects toward the middle, and pulling it away from the door. She takes his jacket from the couch and passes it to him, gesturing for him to pull it on.

“He’s been watching. And you didn’t leave last night.”

“And if I leave now, will he not notice?”

“Just…” Her only coherent thought is get him away as soon as possible, away from her crazy past and present.

(This is what it feels like, to send away your family.)

“Emily, where are you going to go?”

She feels a shutter sliding down in front of her. “I need to figure things out. I’ll see you on Monday, Hotch. You really need to go, but just stay safe, please, and don’t tell anyone else about this.”

He’s almost forcibly pushed out of her apartment, and carefully descends the stairs to the lobby, reading every person he sees out of the corners of his eyes. Reaching his car parked next to the building, he double checks it for hidden traps, before sliding into the driver’s seat. It takes him five minutes into his drive to realise the amount of trust she’s placed in him, and then the realisation that he should never have left, leaves him slightly winded. He resists the urge to turn around and drive back (her frantic pleas circle around and around for the rest of the weekend), knowing the danger she would be in, with him as a bargaining chip.

(He wants to bash the steering wheel. Repeatedly.)

Monday comes around, Rossi asks him about the weekend ( _he had a long weekend_ ), and he discovers at his desk, a yellow sticky note folded twice over.

He looks out the window to the bullpen, and sees her (the first one in) at her desk, twisting a rubber band into intricate knots.

He unfolds the note to see her simple bold scrawl.

_Thank you. –E._

(And he wishes she would let him in.)

(She wishes she could.)


	2. beginning.

He stares at her through tubes and wires and sterile lights, and oh god, her face is far too pale to be counted among the living. And then it rushes back to him ( _that was a cruel cruel joke_ ) and she really is dead.

It’s not fair, he thinks, that she’s the one in hospital again. It’s like she rolls sixes the most, and maybe Reid next, and it’s not like he wants the others on his team hurt, but he wishes that maybe some sort of karmic police would have intervened by now.

He grasps her hand tightly in his significantly more alive ones, and the monitor’s beep beep beep beep gets steadily faster. He remembers the feeling of her slowly waking up, body pressed intimately against his, sleep warring with alertness in her eyes. Except this time, there is no chaise, no lounge, no apartment, no _home_.

_are we there yet?_

Nurses scramble in, and he’s pushed back against the wall. Someone grabs his arms to steer him outside, but pure willpower and animal strength manages to throw them off. (She will not be left alone again.) They take out the breathing tube, adjust the monitors and more tubes, and one by one, the nurses trickle out, the last one leaving him with a jug of water, a bowl of ice chips, and a semi-reassuring pat on the shoulder.

She turns wide groggy eyes to him. (Beseeching.)

A sip of water later, she manages to rasp out, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I’m so so sorry.”

_you brave, brave girl_

“Emily. Do you know where you are right now?” He knows that major surgery will leave anyone disoriented (hell, _he’s_ slightly disoriented), and maybe ripping the Band-Aid straight off is the better idea, but he thinks they’re both too emotional right now to do anything but ease their way in.

“Hospital. Boston?” Each word is enunciated painstakingly slowly. She flicks her eyes around the room, sees the tension lined across his forehead. She asks, not knowing if she wants the answer.

“Did you get him?”

“You’re in Bethesda right now.” He won’t (can’t) meet her eyes.

She repeats, slightly louder. “Did you get him? Please, Hotch. Did you get him?” Her drawn-out plea threatens the tears about to spill over. She begs, she demands, she cries.

“No. No, I’m sorry, we didn’t.”

And now the silence is deafening. Even her cries are numb, a bizarre tingling like an explosion that just went off, and they were standing far too close. But it’s not collateral – at least, he hopes not – because he wants to think that he was _always_ there.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Her hushed whisper is resigned. She’s known for a while (since Sean McAllister’s call) that she would not get out unscathed. She’s known since going to Boston that there was every possibility that she would not get out alive. Only, it’s now even more cruel because she’s alive, and yet she isn’t.

“Don’t you dare say that!” The ferocity of his response scares her.

“But…”

And it’s only now that he understands what she’s trying to say. He blows out a breath, surprised at his own lack of control.

“Officially, yes. But we will find him, and we will stop him, and you will… can… come back.”

The change in verb does not escape her notice. As much as he wants ( _and the team needs_ ) her to stay, he’s already calculated into the future. And she’s scared too, because she knows that he knows that she isn’t one hundred percent sure. The team’s heightened emotions over the past few days have shown him enough.

“How’s everyone doing?” It’s like she’s gauging the response now to see whether she _should_ come back.

“They’re taking it hard. Emily, I understand what you did, and with time, they will too.”

“But… they won’t know about…?”

(what’s your name now?)

“No. It’s just me and JJ.”

_lies and more lies_

She swallows and looks to the ceiling, avoiding his piercing gaze. Emily Prentiss is dead, and she is alive, she knows the value of life, but…

“Tell me a story, Hotch.”

“Aaron.”

Which prompts another round of tears. She’s not sure when the distinct line between them, almost twenty years old, was blurred. They have always been concretely professional, more so than anyone else on the team. She even admits to looking on jealously with the bond he’s formed with the others.

_i don’t deserve this_

“I’m sorry. I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s been a… busy few weeks.”

And he looks affectionately exasperated at her. “Understatement of the year. You need to rest now, Emily.” _Have I always been this distant?_

“Tell me a story.”

He can easily pretend that it’s Jack asking, and he’s simply about to go to sleep, all tucked in with Captain America sheets surrounding him, and he will see him again in the morning.

(Except it’s not and he won’t.)

It’s quiet for a full five minutes before his dark deliberate low tones sweep over the mechanical beeps of the machines. (She hears rivers and forests and slow winters in front of a crackling fire.)

“Many years ago, there was a young boy named Carl, and he had a friend called Ellie. They grew up together hoping to be great explorers, and one day move to Paradise Falls in South America. They became really close friends and eventually got married. He became a balloon salesman, and she became a zookeeper. And they grew old and happy together in an old abandoned house where they first met as kids.”

He pauses, and sees her eyes beginning to droop. He wants to wake her up, to have a proper conversation, to just _talk_ , but knows that she’s too damn tired. Heart heavy, he continues, telling himself that it’s as much for him as it is for her.

“So over the years, they saved as much money as they could, so they could finally take that trip and explore Paradise Falls. And one day, Carl managed to surprise Ellie with the plane tickets to South America. Except she became really sick and died before they could go.”

_too close?_

“Years later, Carl is still living in their old home, watching the city grow around him. There was a lot of construction work going on, and he was being told to move into a retirement home. But he didn’t want to. Instead, he kept living there and arguing with the foreman. But one day, a young Wilderness Explorer, Russell, came knocking on his door trying to help Carl to earn his ‘assisting the elderly’ badge. Carl rebuffs Russell, but a few days later, when he’s about to be kicked out of his house, he releases the millions and millions of helium balloons attached to his house, which lift it off its foundations. However, what Carl didn’t know was that Russell had made his way onto his porch earlier…”

“Hotch, that’s the plot of _Up_ ,” she interrupts.

“You do know your Pixar movies,” he says with a slight quirk of the mouth. “I thought you were asleep.”

“It was a hunt,” she says quietly, a few seconds later.

Oh, shit. He should have realised.

“No, Emily. They were explorers. They wanted to reach Paradise Falls, and they did.”

“Not Carl and Russell. The other guy.”

He can’t say anything in response to that.

“I made a promise to Clyde Easter. I told him that we would save you. And I’m not about to break that promise now.”

“How is he? He wasn’t the leak, was he?”

“We don’t think so.”

And again, silence ensues. Because in this delicate time, there is nothing that either of them can say that won’t hurt, or won’t sound like a goodbye.

A nurse chooses this moment to walk in, professionally unaware of the tension and desperation escalating, emanating between them.

“Agent Hotchner. She needs to rest now. I’ll give you another fifteen minutes.” And with that sentence, she quietly backs out.

“She doesn’t even know my name.”

“And neither will I. You’ll be contacted once you reach Paris, and you’ll be given new identities.”

She holds his gaze now. Strong, determined, much like the Agent Prentiss he knows. (And still exists.) He tries not to break in front of her, but he can’t stop the tears from leaking down the side of his face. He’s not cried since this mess began, and he wonders if this is the right moment to finally let go.

“Hey. _Aaron_.” Unfamiliar, but sweet nonetheless. “You can’t do this to me now, okay? You need to look after the rest of the team. Make sure Reid and Garcia still smile, and Ashley doesn’t feel too new. And Morgan doesn’t vent too hard, and Rossi still has someone to talk to. And give Jack a hug every night from me. I’m sorry I dragged you all into this, I shouldn’t have, but I need to know you’ll…you all will be okay.”

Her voice is starting to crack, whether from her injuries or from the emotional strain, they can’t tell. She reaches out with her right arm, slowly so as not to disturb the swathes of bandages, and places her hand gently, cupping his face.

“And make sure you don’t blame yourself for this. Talk to JJ whenever you can.”

A small smile manages to break through the sheen of tears on his face. Tenderly, he grasps her right hand in his left.

“Still looking after us from a hospital bed. Is there anything I can do?”

He starts to draw pictures, letters, words, almost hypnotically on the back of her hand. (They will crave that contact.)

“Can you… can you say my name again?” _I’m not going to hear it for a long time_.

He whispers her name over and over and over, and it loops for the rest of the long night.


	3. amidst.

She has a small pocket calendar tucked in the back pocket of her jeans. It’s empty, save for the methodical red strokes struck boldly across each passing day. It’s arbitrary, the method in which she counts days – she’s not counting down days to pay bills, to her mother’s next political function, to Christmas, to birthdays…

She just counts.

(She counts it as 97 days since she last saw him.)

And within those days, she hovers between cities; Paris, Barcelona, Rome, London, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Geneva, Dublin… She could be a tourist, a naïve single woman traipsing across Europe without a care. She could have a camera, numerous travel guides, a piled high backpack. She could be staying in hostels, going to parties on the invitation of strangers, visiting all the obvious landmarks. She could be blissfully lost.

_where are you? where are you from?_

She often finds herself wishing she wasn’t ex-CIA, ex-JTF, ex-FBI. And then her thoughts fly randomly, and she thinks that at least it’s so easy to get around Europe.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a young girl and everyone called her Little Red Riding Hood because she went everywhere wearing her riding hood of red velvet. One day, her mother told her to bring some cake and some wine to her very sick grandmother. She warned her not to get off the path and to go straight there. But suddenly, there was a wolf in the woods in front of her and he said hello, and she said hello, and they started talking ( _are you friends, now?_ ), and he was so friendly and he asked her what she was doing ( _i’m looking for valhalla, you might have heard of him?_ ). So she started talking, and she should have stopped earlier, and he said the flowers were lovely ( _yes, the purple lavender ones are beautiful and they smell gorgeous_ ), so she picked some up on her way and let the wolf in front of her. And then she got to grandmother’s house and she can see that the door is open – don’t go in don’t go in don’t go in don’t go in don’t go in don’t go in –

(She loved the story when she was a kid.

But she can’t seem to get the facts right, and the fiction out of reality anymore.)

....

The sun is slowly rising, and she can see the warmth starting to peek through the small window through her bedroom in Paris. She lies there, uncharacteristically still, waiting for the gradual trickle of sound; of people beginning to rise and bustle and leave. She has nothing particular on her agenda today. Her to-do list since checking out of hospital has consisted of 1) Find Doyle, and 2) Kill Doyle.

(Sometimes, she’s confused. To hide, or to hunt?)

Wrapping her robe around her, she stumbles out of bed, wincing slightly as her right side struggles to catch up. Grabbing her gun off the nightstand, she begins her morning sweep of her apartment. ( _Morgan would be proud_.) She checks the bathroom, the small laundry, the kitchen, the living room, double-, triple-checking the lock on the front door. And it’s only then does she allow her heart to slowly return to its normal (alive) pulse.

Going through her morning routine is tedious and she can’t help but feel like a robot, cold metal and mechanical, and it’s a lovely day outside (with sun and birds and music and people) but she’s in a dark dark tunnel, and oh god, _where the hell is the light?_

( _we are in that dark place with you, we are waving flashlights and calling your name_ )

She slips on a pair of black jeans, pulls on a dark red button-up ( _Rossi once said you looked good in red_ ), before finding her sturdy ankle boots. She tucks a handgun in her bag and slides another gun in the waistband of her jeans, and debates hiding a third on her person.

(She was once an international arms dealer.)

She has a habit of visiting a different café every morning for breakfast. The money in the three accounts has allowed her to live more comfortably than she originally thought, like some sort of twisted payment for her services. She spends her days playing happy tourist, and her nights bartending. She hears things; whispers of conversations, raucous arguments across a bar, shady dealings behind an alley. And maybe it will lead her closer to Doyle, but on an intrinsic animal level, it just satisfies (enhances) her paranoia.

She finds the café on Rue l’Université, and in a fit of dangerous nostalgia, decides that this is where this morning’s breakfast will be. Seating herself with her back against the aged brick wall, she quickly flags the waitress and orders _le pain au chocolat avec un café_. The French slips off her tongue fluidly, second nature now, and it’s been a while since English has made an appearance. (She’s even managed to pick up conversational German.)

The soft breeze swishes delicately around her, imitating the whispers and chatter of the other patrons, and she knows that she probably resembles a scared rabbit, compulsively turning her head every ten seconds, but she can’t stop the voices, sounds, _noises_ pounding inside her head. Her senses are too finely attuned to every sound and movement, and she is just so tired and she just wants everything to _stop_.

She draws her white trench coat around her (nostalgia, really), letting it shield her from the wind, sun, cold and everything else. Her fingers dig into the pockets, and she lets her left hand close around the worn piece of paper, wrinkled and read many many times over. (Like a personal talisman.)

_Dear Emily…_

Finishing her breakfast and leaving the waitress with a large tip, she slowly meanders over to the park, ducking behind buildings and small streets.

The grass is a carpet, and she relishes the feeling of her feet sinking in, and the effort it takes to leave another step. She eyes a wrought-iron bench and makes a beeline for it; sitting for ten seconds before a young boy (she guesses around nine, bright, confident, sandy-haired, brown eyes, status: _no danger posed_ ) sidles up to her.

_…I know that I’ve probably broken a few rules in writing this and getting JJ to give it to you, but you’ll be surprised to know that, for once, I don’t care…_

“Est-ce que vous jouez?”

The boy pulls out a chess set and sets it out on the bench between them. ( _Was I once that young?_ )

“Je m’appelle Henri.”

“Oui, je peux jouer avec vous. Je m’appelle Zoé.”

He gives her a huge carefree grin, and begins placing the pieces on the board, deliberately. She can see his tongue poking out, a look of supreme concentration gracing his face, and her heart constricts, because she’s seen that look before, on Jack.

_… I don’t want to make you miss us anymore than you do already, but I thought you might appreciate hearing from a friend. You took care of everyone and kept all of our secrets; you’ve supported all of us at some stage or another. Everyone on the team has started to remember the good moments…_

And she’s not surprised to find herself playing against another prodigy. She’s glad to admit that she’s able to focus her mind on the game in front of her; another battle, another strategy, but completely harmless and _fun_. She ends up playing a total of five games with Henri (letting him win four), before tensing when a harried woman rushes in her direction. She manages to squeeze out a small smile at Henri when he beams a toothy grin in response, thanks her, and hurries off towards his mother.

_…like the time when you beat Reid at poker, or the time where you turned up hungover in the Vegas hotel lobby. (I admit I wasn’t there, but Dave tells me it was worth seeing…). JJ and Garcia told me of one of the first times you went out with them, and told me how you humiliated the guy at the bar…_

She makes her way back to her apartment, logs onto her cheap laptop, and immediately goes to the FBI homepage. She knows she’s taking a risk (her computer could be stolen at any time), but she _has_ to stare at the page, at the logo, at the familiarity, at the news, and she tries not to look under ‘Most Wanted’.

(is this home?)

She spies the tiny icon in the corner of the screen, and with a breath of relief, notes that ‘cheetobreath’ is online. It’s the most tangible connection she has (aside from the letter), and she will gratefully take it. She’s always been a linguist, and the letters float comfortably in front of her.

Until she starts seeing too hard, and all that stands out is the I and the D and the E and the L and the V and the J and the O and so she slams the computer shut and makes a mental note to apologise to her at some later stage.

_…When I first heard that story, I was proud of you, and I need you to know that I’m proud of you now as well. I remember that time when you and JJ and I were in Hankel’s bathroom, and you told us how you compartmentalise better than most people. And the time when we had to do the custodial on Karl Arnold. I understand now, and I’d like to think you’re even stronger because of your past experiences…_

It’s a trendy bar not ten minutes’ walk from her apartment. The live smooth jazz does wonders to soothe her frayed nerves, and she stands for hours, mixing drinks, pouring drinks, catching conversations with local businessmen, artists, tourists, musicians, people out for socials… She discusses art, politics (her mother would be proud), sport, gossip, and she feels like she’s violently see-sawing between moderate contentment and severe loneliness.

It’s not until she glances up and sees a young couple (he turns and looks at her and she sees glacial blue eyes and she has curly dark hair and they are so so happy) walking out, hand-in-hand, shielding each other from the brisk night, that she starts to truly break.

_…and you’ve always been strong, Emily. When I first met you, not at the BAU, but as your mother’s security detail, I was struck most by the intense fire and grace and passion in your eyes and words. Very few people had been able to render my partner, Halloran, speechless. I never got a chance to see you again before you left for Yale, and I regret that. Then you were in my office again, sixteen years later. You came at a difficult time, and I’m deeply sorry for the way you were treated when you started with us. We viewed you as simply an asset, but then you became everyone’s friend and confidant, and your personal and professional integrity astounded me. I never showed it nor told you at the time, and I wish I had, but I want to thank you…_

Muttering a hasty goodnight to her boss, she tosses the used rag somewhere, buttons her coat and stumbles out. She’s already thinking about the bottles of hard liquor she has stashed not-so-secretly around her apartment.

(She’s always held the belief that one should never drown their sorrows alone.)

He kissed her that warm sunny morning in Northern Ireland eight years ago. And he gave her a gimmel ring that warm sunny morning in Northern Ireland eight years ago. (And she can’t remember whether it was Lauren or Emily who said thank you.) She asks herself, constantly, whether she would have stayed – JTF be damned, Clyde be damned, Doyle be damned.

(And oh god, she would have stayed for Ian.)

She remembers her doctor’s orders, and then promptly forgets them, and the alcohol will burn twice as normal (this is what a table leg through your abdomen will do). She dumps her coat, her shirt, leaving her bra, and stares at the four-leaf clover through the mirror, bottle of whiskey in hand, hands clenched and poised to break the glass.

(wasn’t hotch here before?)

And the tears come earnestly now, tumbling spilling flowing, and dammit, she’s lost six friends, a family, and he understood, and _she misses him so much_.

_…for when you were there for me and Jack after Foyet. Emily, you were a wonderful friend, and you still are, and I don’t think any less of you. There are so many things that I haven’t said in this letter, and I’ll say it when I see you again, whenever and wherever that will be. I need you to stay strong for me and Jack and the team…_

She sits huddled in a corner, watching the streetlights shine through the amber liquid in her hand. And she reads it again and again and again…

_…and remember that you, Emily Prentiss, are loved and missed._

… and she reaches for her calendar and decisively marks another day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my french is rusty; please excuse it.


	4. interlude.

He walks into the bullpen at midnight.

He’s already told his team to go home after their last case, and this is always the area where he’s been the most hypocritical. Ascending the stairs to the office, he turns and leans over the railing. He closes his eyes (it doesn’t make a difference in terms of the lighting) and _imagines_. Yes, his team deals with the worst of humanity, but they’ve always found times to laugh and live.

He imagines it now: Reid and his physics magic, a discussion about gothic hairstyles, banter laden with innuendo between Morgan and Garcia, gossip between Emily and JJ and Dave, team dinners, card games, betting pools, Christmas parties…

“You need to sleep.”

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“You’re not really here, are you?”

“No,” she whispers back. “But if you’re hearing me, maybe it’s you telling yourself that you need sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. I lie there, and I keep seeing the stake and the blood, and how you coded in the ambulance, and how we should have noticed everything earlier.”

“Aaron. I’m sorry.”

It is painful, because she’s (he’s) called him by his first name, and it’s not _real_.

“Of course it’s real,” she interjects.

He smiles sadly. “No, you’re not. But I wish you were.”

“Open your eyes.”

And he does. She’s standing there in a delicate deep amethyst evening gown, hair swept elegantly into a knot at the base of her neck, soft raven tendrils escaping and framing her face. (He even smells the soft scent of vanilla and apples.) She’s blood-free and wearing the biggest smile he’s seen in a very, very long time. Against the backdrop of the dark quiet bullpen, she looks completely at home, at ease with a relaxed grace, and he’s rarely noticed it before, but…

“You’re beautiful,” he blurts out.

“Tell that to the real me, then,” she laughs lightly, smirking at his stunned face.

“Aaron,” she says more soberly. “You…we will get Doyle. And then I can come home. And then you can tell me. But in the meantime, you really need to sleep. You’re exhausted. How would the team feel if they knew you were talking to me?”

“Jealous,” he manages to shoot back.

“Touché.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

He says it so quietly that it’s almost missed. Which is ridiculous, when he thinks about it a second later, because he’s really just talking to himself, right?

“You said so yourself. I’m not real.”

“This conversation is real.”

“Aaron,” she sighs softly.

“Emily. I miss you.”

“Just… keep remembering. This is _your_ subconscious talking. I’m always here.”

A beat passes and he swallows heavily, before allowing a small smile to unfurl.

“Are you going to show up whenever I’m about to drop from lack of sleep?”

“Do you want me to?” Her smile is teasing.

“Do you remember the Darrin Call case? You were there every step of the way, just following me.”

“Yeah. You had just sent Haley and Jack away. We all saw you. We were all following you that day.”

“We didn’t do the same for you.” _No,_ I _didn’t do the same for you_.

“Aaron, that’s over now. You can move on. Get some sleep.”

“I can’t. You’re not here. And… I don’t know if you’re coming back.”

“Neither do I. But you know that already.” Her face softens, and she looks at him tenderly. “Close your eyes. Go home, Aaron.”

“One more minute.”

She smiles gently. “We’re always going to want one more minute.”

He lets his gaze sweep over her, one last time, drinking every inch in, wishing he could have Reid’s eidetic memory. Finally closing his eyes, he hears her whisper.

“Goodbye, Aaron.”

A minute, two minutes pass before he lets himself open his eyes again, the faint smell of vanilla and apples still lingering in his mind. It’s dark, and she isn’t there.

“See you soon, Emily.”

....

(He imagines her sitting cross-legged in a secret niche between bushes, books spread out in front of her, eager and inquisitive, tucked away behind some corner of a palatial house in France.

He imagines her blending in, lost somewhere amidst the busy crowds of Paris.)

He starts lighting a candle on the seventh of every month.


	5. after.

They both don’t blink.

They _never_ blink.

Like now, when they’re staring each other in the eye, dead-on, and they both absolutely refuse to give. The tension is palpable and he dares her to tell him that she’s fine, that she’s coping, that she’s back, and he dares her not to lie to his face. Not to shove everything into those neat little boxes lined alphabetically somewhere in her mind.

It was a simple, mundane, innocuous question, and now her eyes are dry as she refuses to blink.

_Why is your hair still wet?_

And then the rational side of him thinks that this is absolutely ridiculous, that he shouldn’t be encouraging her to keep her defences up. He likes to think that he’s mellowed slightly since losing Haley, and that he’s closer to the rest of his team. And he’s noticed her even more since Doyle; professionally, she’s as good as ever, possibly even better, but he’s trained to read behaviour (familiar behaviour?) and overcompensation is screaming like a neon sign plastered on her forehead.

He softens, blinks and looks away.

“Emily, let’s sit down.” He slowly reaches out for her elbow and guides her to her couch. “If you’re comfortable with telling me, I’m willing to listen.”

She’s still chewing her nails.

“There were a lot of things that happened… things that no one should ever know about. Not just the ops stuff, but… You found out about me and Doyle, yeah?” She pauses to look absently over his shoulder, hoping that she hasn’t (won’t) overstepped boundaries with her normally aloof supervisor.

“Yes, we did. JJ told us,” he tells her softly.

She nods, left hand absentmindedly twisting her hair tie into knots. Two, three, four, and over and over, faster and faster.

He raises an eyebrow at her actions, and she blushes slightly. “You fuelled my habit. Those rubber bands you sent with your… letter.”

He hears her voice break over the last word, and he frowns.

“Emily, I never wanted to hurt you with that letter. I just wanted to make sure you were… coping.” His eyes are earnest and open.

(And god, she can’t take it anymore.)

She stops twisting the hair tie, and leaves the room suddenly, returning with the familiar piece of paper. She tosses it in front of him, and she’s trembling now, and her face has never been a canvas for her emotions, but now it’s all too clear, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s always relied on her to be the one who doesn’t explode, who doesn’t lose control, and come to think of it, that’s not really fair, is it?

“Hotch, I was a fucking mess. Paris. London. Dublin. Barcelona. Rome. I went everywhere looking over my shoulder and I carried that letter in my pocket. Everywhere. I read it day in, day out, trying to make sense of what the hell you were saying, what the hell was going on. You were _nice_ to me, dammit, and I had _no idea_ where I fucking was! Every night, I had nightmares, and I closed my eyes and I couldn’t work out whether I saw your face or his! Every fucking night! You do not get to do this to me!”

Her face is red, and tears are streaming, and she suddenly collapses into his arms, and this is decidedly not what he was hoping for.

The guilt hits him heavily from the front, and he can see it manifested as her tears stain his shirt, bleeding in slowly, getting progressively heavier. He rubs calming circles on her shoulder, and yeah, he definitely understands the conflation of reality and nightmares. Only in her case, it’s even harder because she doesn’t think she’s ever clearly marked the boundaries between one side and the other.

“Emily, you survived. I’m proud of you, do you understand? You did the best you could.” And he keeps murmuring into her hair, like an ingrained message.

_we can’t help ourselves_

“Hotch, I would have stayed for him. I would have stayed for that fucking bastard. It wasn’t until I realised what he was going to raise Declan to be…” Her sobs continue to wrack her body, and he holds her close. “I kept the damn ring, Hotch. What the hell was I meant to do with it? I couldn’t throw it away,” she finally whispers, she finally admits.

He manages to school his face into a less emotional mask ( _god, he hates that word_ ) and he pulls back slightly to look at her, to read her. He _knows_ the anger, the intensity, the frustration, and he’s seen the dark dark void that curls and doubles in on itself ( _he sees one man beating another to a bloody pulp, red red red everywhere_ ); a tangled mess of complicated strings that takes an eternity to unwind and unravel.

And he swears to himself that he will not let go.

“Tell me why, Emily.”

And she looks back at him, sitting there calmly, and she wonders how much darkness was there to begin with.

“It was addictive,” her soft hoarse voice breaking the air. “It was addictive and exhilarating just being someone else, someone dangerous, not caring what everyone thought, because I couldn’t… I didn’t have to care. No one could judge, because it was for the greater good. Especially if it was a job and had to be done. And yeah, afterwards, you felt disgusting, like an enabler, but then there was always another operation and another after that.”

(she’s surprised and she can’t stop now.)

“Doyle was different. He was human, and he _cared_. I was in there for months, and it was so, so normal. There were days where the operation was nothing except for a tiny voice at the back of my mind.” Her eyes take on a glazed quality as she lowers her voice. “We went to the most beautiful places around Europe.”

_and i let go_

She glances carefully at him, debating whether to divulge more information. He is staring intently at her, no longer distant, and she internally sighs with relief at the lack of judgement on his face. She takes a deep breath and stares him in the eye.

“It was hell when I had to remember exactly who he was, and why I was there. He was a lot like you – intensely fierce and loyal and smart, and a fantastic father and leader. Only, he was on the other side of the law. And when that becomes the only distinction…”

She allows her voice to trail off, and she hopes that she hasn’t scared him away. (She has the sudden thought that Morgan would have started yelling by now.)

“Emily, I’m sorry if I’ve confused you.”

“I know,” she lets a small watery smile through. “It’s really not your fault. You’ve been… incredibly supportive. Your letter really was the only thing that got me through some of the days.”

He feels his heart swell with her words, and a mixture of elation and trepidation simmers quietly at the forefront of his mind. He remembers sitting alone at night, with nothing but Jack’s soft snores and glasses of alcohol for company, deconstructing and analysing and deconstructing and analysing every interaction with a particular brunette. He remembers vividly, and he ignores the pangs and hits because _he has to_.

( _we fall and forget and remember and live_ )

“You know we’re all here for you. I don’t think Garcia’s ever going to let you out of her sight,” he smirks.

“Yeah, I know. It was one of the reasons why I chose the BAU. No more hiding.”

He tentatively reaches out for her again, and she allows herself to temporarily forget the last eight months, a rare luxury for her overworked mind. He continues to hypnotically stroke her back, and she hates the cliché, but god, it’s warm and home and _safe_ , and it’s not until he gently presses a small kiss into her hair –

“Aaron.”

And his smile is the widest and most beautiful she’s seen in _years_.

“I… I… This is the first time I’ve told anyone about this,” she laughs nervously. “I’ve been telling the shrink the watered-down version.”

He understands implied statements, and that makes him smile even further.

“Emily. Whatever you need, okay?

It sounds awfully like a promise, and he’s staring at her again, daring her to accept it. She acquiesces with a small nod and a wavering smile. It feels no different to yesterday, _except it is_ ; a whole world over.

And they sit and talk about everything and nothing, and yes, she agrees (she knows), _it’s a start_.

....

Her hairdryer lies there, covered with a very thin layer of dust from its lack of use. It’s been _months_ since she’s dried her hair with one.

( _the noise and the heat and his face and his mark and the smell of burning flesh_ )

She runs her finger to clear the dust, hefts it in her hands, feels the potential power course through.

Plugs it in and takes a breath.

It turns on and roars to life.


	6. (an epilogue.)

They have a set of matching scars now.

Moonlight ghosts over them, raised and silvery. Fingers glide and dance, caress and withdraw, memorise and understand. They say that their own scars are ugly, and the other’s are beautiful.

It’s a weird dichotomy and a mesh of tangled confusion, but god, _they are there_.

....

He grasps her hand firmly in his as he leads them around the ballroom. They glide and step and give and take and balance, and he allows himself to relax slightly, to enjoy. The team usually hates (and actively avoids) these pompous formal occasions, but they’ve been through too much this year to simply care, and family is far more important.

It’s not Morgan’s type of music, not his usual scene, but he still affectionately shakes his head at a dancing Prentiss, as she smirks at him hovering around the drinks table, trying to impress any young female agent happening to pass by.

He ruefully shakes his head as yet another group of agents give him a teasing smile before heading off in clusters, and if this were any other night, he’d feel slightly miffed, but he spies Reid and Garcia animatedly gesturing and talking while walking towards him.

(And he’s slightly surprised that Reid hasn’t tripped yet.)

Not long after – so, five minutes of solid theorising as to the origin of the crack in the wall in Amy Pond’s bedroom, and another ten minutes of speculation as to the canonical accuracy of the upcoming Marvel films, plus an interrupted two minutes on strategies to escape and survive a zombie apocalypse –  he sends a look of pure desperation in JJ and Rossi’s general direction, hoping that they’ll break off whatever riveting conversation they’re having with Strauss to save him from this lunacy.

And Rossi does notice, and grins knowingly at him, before tugging on JJ’s arm, making some elaborate excuse and leaving.

(Because family looks out for each other, right?)

Swiping a drink from the table, JJ notices her best friend and her mentor, and feels her heart ache and swell at the image. She remembers the briefly stoic, yet lost expression on her ex-supervisor right after she came through the entrance to the Visitors’ Lounge, and the calm defiance as he handed her the envelope right before she boarded the plane, daring her to say something, say anything.

She smiles softly as Hotch passes by, and sends him a nod of encouragement (approval?) and sees him visibly lighter. And she glances next to her and sees that Rossi has done the same, and she laughs lightly, raises a slight toast with him, and feels that everything could be okay.

....

There is a faint buzz that they are both only peripherally aware of. She leans in further, and he takes the moment to quietly whisper in her ear. It is slow and languid and aching and precious, and maybe he really shouldn’t do this in a corner of the large room (he’s not one for career suicide), but he really doesn’t give a damn right now.

“You’re beautiful.”

She stills momentarily, uncertainty etched on her face as she glances up. He elaborates as she passes him a quizzical look.

“When you were away, I couldn’t sleep. And that manifested into seeing you. I couldn’t tell you then, so I’m telling you now.”

A look of understanding, and a genuinely warm smile graces her face.

“Thanks,” she whispers shyly. “And I finally got it the other day. You said you left Jack at Jessica’s that weekend.”

“I did.” The segue is unexpected and the confusion on his face is adorable, and she tries valiantly to suppress a smile.

“You always have Jack on the weekend. But you knew, didn’t you? You knew something was up.”

( _You knew there was something deeper_.)

She’s not naïve enough to believe that it’s some calling or sign or whatever, because this is definitely more than just another cheesy flick that she and JJ and Garcia have got together to watch. It is infinitely more real and has so much potential, and it hurts a lot more, dreams a lot more, and is so so _alive_.

He sees the emotions flit across her normally guarded face, and he draws her in closer, breathes, _loves_ , captures the intensity of her smile and locks it away forever.

“Yes,” he grins, wry and gentle. “I knew. From the very beginning.”

 


End file.
